Of Corona and Coiffeurs

Amid a global cataclysm induced by the coronavirus pandemic, the year 2020 comes to a close with a faint, almost hallucinatory, promise of a utopia where all 7.8 billion people on Earth will soon be made available an effective vaccine, which they will then willfully inoculate themselves with before proceeding to gallivant around incautiously like they used to in the pre-corona era.  While scientific community has been feverishly working toward transforming this chimera into reality, the privileged populace has been preoccupied with their own woes stemming from the new corona-lifestyle.  Although these woes are generally mere inconveniences that disrupt an otherwise agreeable existence, they are weighty enough to polarize the said populace into factions.  One such ludicrous woe is related to personal grooming, particularly, hair management.

While many hair-cutting establishments are open now, you might remember the early days of corona when closed hair salons caused panic among the dapper.  Several folks began wielding the scissor & comb and honing their home barbering skills citing the example of Mahatma Gandhi who taught himself how to cut his own hair during his days in England because an English barber refused to cut his hair, and several others chose to turn into long haired barbering skeptics and began imposing on others their newfound opinion on how nonessential activities like cutting hair interfere with life's spiritual pursuits.  

Interestingly, my own haircut schedule has mirrored NE Ohio weather patterns.  If I look back on any mild weather day since April 2020, I can picture myself sitting cross legged on the deck facing a mirror, with a meandering orange extension cord behind my back, trimming away merrily with my faithful WAHL trimmer, oblivious to the cries of "Don't sprinkle hair everywhere!", "Don't come inside without dusting yourself!", "Why don't you have the broom ready?", "Why is there hair on this side of the deck when you are sitting on that side?", "Why can't you clean as you go?", "There has to be a better solution!", etc. emanating from inside the house.  As a result, ever since winter temperatures have settled in, I have been bumming around the residence with an overgrown mane and bushy sideburns threatening to reach Elvis proportions soon.  With extremely limited outside social contact though, it is hard to find motivation to remedy this Neanderthal visage.  My only motivation at this time is Mira, who got a surreptitious haircut during a naptime covert operation orchestrated by Pavana earlier this week, and is now looking all spruce and tidy.

What's for breakfast?

"Tindi ge enta?"

This question seems to have taken over a large portion of our mental space lately.  There was a time when Pavana and I would wake up 15 min before we had to leave for work, break our fasts with a bowl of cornflakes each or grab a couple Kashi trail mix granola bars, and head out.  Even that was a significant lifestyle boost from my college days when I would have to apportion the $5 per diem my on-campus deli job provided for the entire day's meals, which I would do by either skipping breakfast altogether or relying on free coffee in my lab or occasionally raiding the bagel table at someone else's thesis defense or dissertation.

Today we are fortunate enough to have so many breakfast options at our disposal; umpa, vermicelli, idli, regular dosa, masala dosa, rava dosa, godi dosa, onion dosa, pancakes, tellavu, dhokla, sabudana khichdi, poha, patrode, cucumber sandwiches, za'atar sandwiches, potato sandwiches, thokku toast, what have you.  Not only have we learned the skills to make these items and expanded our appetites to accommodate them, but we are also fortune enough to afford the necessary rations their recipes call for.  And yet, the aforementioned question has become a constant in our household.  While the verbiage in the question is indicative of a genuine underlying concern for the family's nourishment, do I sense a lurking irreverence toward our privileged circumstances in the mild exasperation with which it is asked?

The Family Meal

"Appa!  I have virtual lunch today!  Bread kodukkariya?"

"Lalit!  Can you feed the kids?  I have lunch meeting!"

"Happaaaa...?  Mum-mummm...?"

This was today at noon.  I had just come downstairs with Mira and had begun heating glass dabbas containing yesterday's dal and beans curry.  The IP was already at LO:112, indicating that Pavana had kept rice almost 2 hours ago.  Even the bottle of cranberry thokku was out on the counter.  Such perfect planning.  And yet, today's lunch ended up being one of those 'on-the-go' ones!

As I wedged a morsel of dal rice into Mira's mouth and simultaneously fed myself a spoonful of curd rice + thokku, I tried to recollect the last time we had all sat together for a meal.  Although I could call to mind a few occasions like Janmashtami, Ganesha Chaturthi etc., I realized that our standard operating procedure for meals is largely to eat when you can so you can be free to do other important stuff.  In Pavana's words: "Ondu kelasa mugiyali".  Notwithstanding all the blogs and research articles extolling the virtues of the family meal at the dining table, if someone were to create a video of a family meal in our house, they would have roam all over the house at indiscriminate times to capture footage of people sitting at miscellaneous spots facing arbitrary directions, inhaling food speedily so they can proceed to other tasks.

It is not like we don't own a dining table, in case you are wondering.  We do.  Unfortunately, number of times the table has served its actual intended purpose since we bought it is a laughable statistic.  Granted the table was semi-regularly used for family meals when my parents were here, but that was over a year ago.  The last time we used it for a family meal was on Thanksgiving Day this year, thanks to Medha's resolve to make everyone sit together and participate in the Thanksgiving activities she had organized.  On a normal day, however, the table is used less as a dining space and more as a horizontal surface to stockpile assorted objects.  For example, at the moment, the table, incidentally draped in a plastic table cloth with loud floral pattern that we thought was pretty at the time of purchase, is strewn with a healthy amount of randomness, viz. a dusty table fan, a nondescript white gift bag containing one purple bead, an opened humidifier box with no humidifier inside, a half filled box of Christmas ornaments, and exactly one plastic table mat.

Mixture

Modern employers typically organize an annual event called "Health Fair".  These events are a great excuse for leaving your desk and getting some circulation going in your legs.  Additionally, the free Band-Aids, pens, Mon-Sun pillboxes, and tiny reusable rPET bags at these health fairs make them the willful hoarder's dream come true.  Being such a benign event, I would have never imagined that one such health fair would become the cause for chronic domestic clashes in the LalPav household.

It all began 3 years ago, when I decided to skip my annual checkup with my primary care physician and entrust my health assessment to a company health fair instead; after all my doctor would never give me a free cookie just for showing up at his office!  However, I should have known that I had made the wrong choice as soon as the health fair workers measured my height as 5'2" and weight as 192 lbs, resulting in an obscene BMI of 35.1!  Instead I nonchalantly went ahead and allowed them to prick my finger for blood for other tests, knowing well that non-fasting fingerstick blood draw tests are not as accurate as traditional fasting blood draws.  

A week later, the blood work results arrived in a white self-addressed envelope.  At the time, I had no idea that this piece of paper would soon become my worst enemy -- it said that my triglycerides were 386 mg/dL (normal: <150 gm/dL)!  Obviously, Pavana panicked and had a fit.  I tried to convince her that the results were obviously inaccurate, but she wouldn't believe me.  "I knew this would happen!", she exclaimed, "It is all because of that stupid mixture you keep eating!".  I kept telling her that I was fine, and that the blood work results were incorrect.  I even tried to prove my point by getting a traditional bloodwork done.  As expected, the new blood work showed that my triglycerides were well within limits, but I was still subjected to the harshest lifestyle change, viz. "No more mixture for you!"

Needless to say, I have since avoided getting blood work done at health fairs and relied instead on checkups with my primary care physician.  After receiving excellent grades on my blood tests since then, my mixture consumption rule has been relaxed a little.  However, that one piece of paper that came in the mail 3 years ago has resulted in permanent PTSD; I still feel like a low-level criminal whenever I walk over to the snack cupboard.

The Christmas Tree

"Do you celebrate Christmas?"

This is a question I get asked often.  More often than not, it triggers a meaningful and very positive discussion about different cultural traditions, racial and ethnic diversity in multicultural communities, themes common to different cultures, and sometimes even more serious topics related to faith and theology.  This kind of dialogue I think is necessary.  I am not here to preach about religious equality or write an essay on the dangers of belief discrimination.  All I am saying is that we must not shy away from these conversations.  These conversations are of paramount importance in today's multicultural society.  They are needed for administrators, employers, schools, and average citizens to develop tolerance and appreciation for cultures that do not fit into mainstream contexts.  They are needed to help immigrant families in countries like the US assimilate into their communities.  They are especially needed to help kids like ours growing up in this country grapple with straddling two different identities.

In a world where egregious jingoism is the becoming the prevailing patriotic sentiment, where cultural diversity is increasingly considered an infraction of cultural integrity, and where there is chaos and conflict in the name of preservation of culture, I want to show my kids that there is a flipside.  While I certainly want them to be true to their own traditions, I want to raise them to be tolerant toward other traditions.  I want them to grow up to honor other people's cultural upbringing or theological preferences.  I want their minds to be always open to educating themselves about ideologies different from their own.  I want them to know that identifying with one faith does not give them a license to be disdainful of the traditions of others.

My desire for raising my kids this way stems from the way my parents raised me.  While quite obviously, I remember celebrating every single Hindu festival with utmost sincerity, I don't remember my parents ever saying anything about Christmas being not for us.  In fact, it was their Santa-avataram that bought me my first HMT wristwatch!  

So this year, just like every year, we will put up a Christmas tree.  The tree will be installed and decorated right under our favorite Shankaracharya picture frame.  Lord Ganesha will supervise our work from across the living room, sitting on his mantelpiece throne, which he had only recently shared with Navaratri golu bommais, Diwali diyas, and Halloween pumpkins equally graciously.  

And this year's Santa-avataram will have to up his game from last year's cheap travel moisturizers, chapsticks, and flossers to Medha's specific petition this year for a magic locket that can eradicate coronavirus.  Thankfully Mira doesn't have any such requests yet! 

It's a Masked Masked World

It is a Sunday morning.  I finish teaching my morning class and hop down the flight of stairs and merrily sail into the kitchen, filter coffee on my mind.  My jovial mood doesn't last too long though, as I am met by Pavana's steely gaze.

"I'm fed up!", she says.

"Huh?"

"I see so many of your masks lying around in the car!"

"Er... how many..."

"Why do you waste masks like this?"

"Wait... how many masks did you see in the car?"

"I don't know.  You can't just remove a new mask everytime you go out and throw it in the car!"

"Wait... how many ma..."

"The car is in a mess.  The house is in a mess.  Why do I have to keep telling..."

"Wait... how many masks did you..."

"And tell me when are you going to install that shelf?  I can't tell you again and again.  We also need to clean the basement.  There is some smell there, I have told you a hundred times."

"Wait... I thought you were talking abou... ahem... how many masks did y..."

"Doesn't matter.  Don't remove new masks every time!  Also, that smell in the basem..."

"I kept one mask on the dash, that one is new.  It needs to come back in.  The one in the door is mine.  There should be no more masks in the car!  I don't know what masks you are talking about!"

"Let it go, Lalit.  Why do you keep pulling and pulling the saaaaame topic?!!  If you have no interest in cleaning the basement then just say so!"

"Wait... so are we done talking about masks?"

There are masks and masks everywhere nowadays.  Our key holder has two fabric masks and one disposable surgical mask hanging off of it pretty much all the time.  The kitchen island drawer has a disposable N95 mask.  Every single jacket in the mud room has at least one mask in its pocket.  And I need not tell you about the cars!

The COVID-19 pandemic has ruled our existence since March of this year.  Notably, it has resulted in an overall heightened awareness of the modus operandi of communicable diseases.  Everyone now talks like an infectious disease expert and thinks like a socially responsible germaphobe.  For instance, I found myself subconsciously reprimanding F. S. Fitzgerald for not putting masks on Gatsby's midnight party attendees or making them think about social distancing while reading his account of the roaring 20s in The Great Gatsby.  For any juncture in the 20s of this century to be 'roaring' would be an act of sacrilege.  In fact, any roars articulated in today's times are expected to be attenuated by at least one layer of polypropylene.  And for good reason.  Studies have show that masks are effective in containing the spread of COVID-19 by reducing transmission via respiratory droplets(read: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC7191274/, https://www.cdc.gov/coronavirus/2019-ncov/more/masking-science-sars-cov2.html).  

You probably don't need a reality check, but here's one just in case.  Remember how shaken we all were back in April when the number of confirmed cases worldwide was inching closer to the 100,000 mark?  Today this number has gone up sevenfold.  We have to keep reminding ourselves that every single one of us is vulnerable.  Unfortunately we as a society seem to have gotten too used to the pandemic.  Isolation fatigue has started setting in as people have started letting their guards down and going out in public without masks.  On one hand we are seeing the deadly impact the virus on our communities, and on the other hand we routinely hear some 21st century Gatsbys proudly proclaim how they were able to organize thousand guest events.  All I can say now is stay safe and do not be foolish.  None of us has has the vaccine yet!